Ralph Weeks chauffeured Agatha, Yale, and Sam to the Latham Shipyards. Dressed in a wrinkled seersucker suit, wearing a yachting cap, his beard extending his profile, Weeks made an impressive, if somewhat Bohemian appearance behind the wheel of the car. When they drove up in front of the administration building a crowd of unemployed Latham workers gathered around the car and greeted them with shouts of encouragement. "You tell 'em, Agatha. Atta boy, Yale Marratt. Let's get this place going. Kick Alfred Latham out. He and his son have ruined the place." Several men were carrying crudely lettered placards exhorting them to get a Navy contract to save the city of Midhaven.
Yale mentioned to Sam that employment in the Yards was down to three thousand people from a war-time record when nearly thirty thousand were employed. At the moment the Yards had only a couple of small tanker contracts that were nearing completion.
"They think you just hire them, and pay the wages from some kind of a money tree . . contracts or not." Agatha was grim. She remarked that the laboring man really should be pitied. "Despite your Ten Commandments, Yale, that try to tell people that they are free . . . capable of making decisions . . . the truth is that only a small portion of us actually run things. The rest of the population, the millions upon millions of people in any decade of history, are just statistics. In one country you have a Hitler or a Mussolini, and these statistical entities called people are motivated, basically, by fear of extermination. In countries like ours we do it more subtly . . . by the mass pressure of advertising or the even stronger pressure of conformity."
As they entered the elevator Agatha was still expounding. "Did you ever stop to think, Yale, the social force that this shipyard exerts on the city of Midhaven? Right now in your high schools without the Lathams saying a word, a solid body of future workers are not only being trained, but they are being conditioned for an eventual future as employees of the Latham Shipyards. Guidance counsellors are telling children that Lathams always has openings in electrical work, drafting, pipefitting . . . what have you? So you see, young man, the average man's life is pretty much determined for him. His muscles and rudimentary brain power are his only within certain prescribed areas."
Yale smiled. "The interesting thing about what you are saying, Agatha, is that the slave owns the master. We are developing a society where your average pre-conditioned man . . . also is pre-conditioned to expect as his social right that he will be employed. In the coming years this is going to lead to some interesting changes in your Victorian form of thinking."
The elevator attendant opened the door into a broad-loomed outer office. Several reporters who had been waiting gathered around Yale and rapid-fired questions at him. Will the Challenge Foundation direct the policies here? Are you sure that you have the controlling interest? Will Miss Agatha Latham take an interest in the operating management of the Yards? Is there anything to the rumor that you will liquidate the Yards? Weren't you quoted as saying that the day of this type of shipyard is fast running out? Where did you get your investment knowledge, Mr. Marratt . . . from Miss Latham? What's your philosophy of business, Mr. Marratt? Do you think Senator Williams can get a Naval contract for the Yards?
Yale parried the questions good-naturedly. He told them that Challenge was not interested in operating the Yards. Challenge had other work to do. It was only interested in maximum dividends from its holdings. No. He was not personally interested in taking part in the active management of the Yards. Yes. He and Agatha Latham were vitally interested in making the Yards profitable.
While he was talking, Alfred Latham opened the door of his private office. Tall with a full head of white hair and piercing blue eyes, he listened to the conversation a moment, and then coldly invited them inside.
The big windows of the mahogany panelled office looked out on the skeleton structures of the Shipyard ways. The floor was covered with two very large oriental rugs. At one end of the office, the long directors' table was already occupied by a number of people. Yale recognized Pat Marratt, Doctor Amos Tangle . . . and yes, he thought, next to Pat must be Bert Walsh, older, a little grey at the temples, and seeming even more poised than when Yale had worked with him during summer vacations. Sitting at the head of the table was Jim Latham who stared at Yale frigidly. Sitting next to Jim were two men unfamiliar to Yale. A mousy-looking woman, her hair tied in a pug, was evidently the recording secretary.
Yale wondered what Bert Walsh was doing here, and then as Bert made his excuses to leave because of the strike situation at Marratt, Yale realized that Pat had probably promoted him to Executive Vice-President of the Marratt Corporation. Bert shook hands with Yale perfunctorily. "I met Pat here to discuss what steps we are going to take. You can tell your friend Cohen that he'll be sorry that he started this."
Yale didn't show his surprise. It was obvious that Pat had started a surveillance of him, and was aware that Harry Cohen had been at his house.
"This place should be familiar to you, Agatha," Alfred Latham said as he led her to her place at the directors' table. "I know that you haven't attended a stockholders' meeting for several years, but we haven't changed the offices much. It still doubles as my office and directors' room."
"It still smells the same, too!" Agatha sniffed. "As if several generations of Lathams were buried under the floor!"
Sam thought that was funny. Sitting at the directors' table next to Yale, he laughed until he caught the sneer of Jim Latham who was looking at both of them as if they were ill-mannered serfs that the ducal lord had been reluctantly forced to entertain. Yale had to admit that he and Sam, dressed as they were in sport jackets and slacks, were in strange contrast to the neat pin-striped, pinned-down collar appearance of the other stockholders. Yale remembered, with a grin, that both Anne and Cynthia had argued with him before he left. This morning, they told him he should make an exception and at least try to look like the successful young executive. He could wear his gabardine suit. A man capable of earning millions of dollars shouldn't look like one of the crew just off a tramp steamer.
It would make no difference, Yale thought, If I made a hundred million dollars. I could never acquire the cool self-possession that Jim Latham and Bert Walsh have adopted as a kind of trademark. Yale had discovered, however, that his insouciant non-conformity, coupled with an ability to say the completely unexpected, tended to ruffle these bright young men. He found it constantly interesting to match his intensity against their exterior polish, and see them grow dull and less confident.
Alfred Latham performed the introductions. Jim Latham nodded at Yale and Sam, but made no effort to stand up or shake hands. Ed Baker, sitting next to Jim, was introduced as Vice-President and Comptroller. Baker, a slight man, wearing rimless glasses, shook hands limply with Yale and Sam and bowed his head to Agatha. The man next to him, John Norwell, was Vice-President in charge of production. He was a granite-faced man who spoke with a Scotch accent. Yale thought he detected a congratulatory tone in his voice. He took Yale's hand in a strong grip.
"You've been around Latham for a long time, Mr. Norwell. I've heard your name mentioned frequently since I was a youngster." Yale looked at him for a moment, and then said: "How would you like to take over here?"
Norwell's face was expressionless. "I've been here for thirty years, laddie. To tell the truth, you still seem a bit of a youngster to me. I wouldna' care to answer your question . . . yet."
Alfred Latham looked at Norwell, a little displeased. He continued with the introductions. "On the other side of the table is Bessie Martin, our recording secretary . . . down at that end is, of course, Patrick Marratt and Doctor Amos Tangle. This constitutes our Board of Directors." Pat ignored Yale. He nodded at Sam Higgins. Doctor Tangle shook hands with both of them perfunctorily.
"Shall we call the meeting to order?" Agatha's interruption was crisp. "I see no need of prolonging the agony." She looked at Pat Marratt a moment and cackled at him. "How are things going at your plant, Patrick? Everyone milling around outside like a lot of dam
ned fools? The other day I was offered twenty dollars if I would join the pickets and carry a placard that said, 'Pat Marratt is a tight old skinflint.'" She smiled charmingly at Pat. "If we get through in time I might take them up on it. Unless you'd like to better the offer."
Pat's face flushed. "I've known you a long time, Agatha. Lately, I don't find your actions or statements amusing. Maybe it's to be expected of people in their senility."
Agatha and he glared at each other. Alfred Latham called the meeting to order. Yale immediately asked for recognition from the chair. "Mr. Chairman, I think we should establish immediately the stock control of this corporation. I represent Challenge Incorporated, a non-profit foundation. Mr. Sam Higgins will pass among you a certified auditor's statement that one hundred and ninety thousand shares of this corporation are controlled by Challenge. He will also give you proof that I have a right to vote these shares. While Challenge is in the process of dealing with certain interests who were caught napping when they sold Latham stock short, I can tell you that under no circumstances will Challenge dilute its controlling interest. Should there be any doubt in your mind that the situation may change . . . even, should I decide to settle completely with the shorts at an agreed upon price, Agatha Latham has assigned to Challenge, for the purpose of this stockholders' meeting, the right to vote her shares in any way I may desire."
Alfred Latham couldn't control an exclamation of disgust. "Agatha, I'm seriously considering having your sanity questioned. Ever since it became apparent that you and young Marratt were in league together, I have tried to get you to come to my house and discuss this rationally. It has occurred to Jim and me, as well as our lawyers, that you are not a young woman, and this young man might be exerting undue and subtle influences on you. . . ." Alfred paused and cleared his throat nervously. "After all, Agatha . . . you are eighty years old . . . I don't believe that it would be misconstrued by anyone to say that when a person reaches that age, certain parts of his brain might not function with complete clarity."
"Alfred . . . this is pure nonsense, and you know it! I'm completely in control of my mind. Sound enough to know that the executives of this company need a thorough shaking up . . . sound enough to know that my Latham stock has missed the last two dividends . . . sound enough not to have got caught in the predicament that you are in. You have been counting on my shares for quite a few years to hold you in power. If you and your son had had any judgment, you'd have gone into the market and purchased Latham shares, and retired them as treasury stock . . . instead, you bought oil leases." Agatha took off her glasses and polished the lenses. "I may be eighty years old, Alfred, but even without glasses I can see that you are still a pompous old fool . . . and your son is a good enough boy . . . but a little thick between the ears."
There was an ominous silence when Agatha finished. Yale felt a little sorry for Jim Latham who looked at Agatha as if he couldn't believe his ears. The poor devil, he thought. He was enjoying life before I appeared on the scene. Latham Shipyards would have always provided him with a comfortable living, and plenty of time off for golf and sailing. Now his little world is disappearing. Yale was beginning to realize that the good he wanted to accomplish in the world wouldn't always be accomplished pleasantly. It frightened him a little. The Communists excused their purges on the principle of the greatest good for the greatest number. But who was to judge?
"Agatha! Think what you are doing to your family!" Doctor Tangle said. "Jim is your nephew. Alfred is your brother. I've known Yale Marratt since he was a young man, and I can tell you that this man is dangerous. Most of us rebel a little when we are children, but when we grow older we realize that we have to conform for the sake of society . . . for the very continuance of society. What this young man is doing is corrupt and insidious. The book he has published has already been scored as blasphemous. Have you seen the morning newspapers? This Challenge thing is an attempt to rock the high standards on which our culture is based." Doctor Tangle took a copy of Spoken in My Manner from his brief case and threw it on the table. "I don't believe that Mat Chilling had anything to do with this book. It has been written by an egotistical maniac . . . a man as dangerous as Hitler in his way. You simply can't afford to have your name associated with this man, Agatha." Doctor Tangle turned to Pat. "I'm sorry to have to speak about your flesh and blood this way. Have you read this monstrous book, Pat?"
Pat admitted that he hadn't. "We have copies of it. My public relations department is studying it. I've already come to the conclusion, however, that whatever my son is doing up there at the old Langley place, it is highly immoral! Whether we have laws against it in this state, I don't know, but I do know that for the sake of the business that I have devoted my life to building, it will be necessary that I publicly denounce the whole thing." Pat shrugged his shoulders and looked around the directors' table. "You can see that this curse has not only descended on Alfred Latham, but it touches me even more closely. I have harbored a viper. I discussed this with Bert Walsh, who incidentally is being groomed for the presidency of my company. He agrees that it could have a very deleterious effect on our sales. The general public who buys our products has no sympathy with deviationists. I think you should know, Agatha, that . . ." as he spoke Pat looked at Yale, but he acted as if Yale weren't present, ". . . Yale is no longer a son in my eyes. He has become, as Doctor Tangle pointed out to you, a menace to society. Individually, and as President of the Marratt Corporation, I will do everything possible to discredit him."
Yale listened to the stinging attack in silence. He noticed the eyes of the others watching him, examining him coldly. They were wondering whether he would crumble under the attack, or retaliate with even stronger words. But there was no anger in him, and he was a little pleased with himself. I have taken a step forward, he thought. I really, honestly feel no anger. This is my father. He is judging me cruelly, unfairly. He feels only contempt and hatred for me, yet I actually feel sorry for him. He is frightened but I can no longer give him courage with a game of verbal reprisals.
"I'm sorry you feel this way, Pat," Yale said, "but actually you are only a small stockholder here, and the point of this meeting is not whether Challenge is a good or bad force in the world, but rather whether the majority stockholders of this corporation are dissatisfied with the officials elected by its Board of Directors. Since the by-laws of this corporation give one vote to every share of common stock, it follows that even without Agatha I am in a position to outvote every stockholder present or otherwise."
"You are not without me, Yale," Agatha snapped. "For your information, Patrick Marratt, I would be ashamed of myself if I were you. And you, Amos Tangle . . . nothing you have said disturbs me in the least. I want you to know that I'm proud of this young man. I like fighters . . . particularly when they are fighting stupidity and moronity." Agatha pounded the table. "Now let us elect a new Board, here."
Yale quickly nominated Agatha as Chairman of the Board, and himself as a director. Miss Martin grimly tallied the nays registered by Alfred, Jim, Pat, Doctor Tangle, and Ed Baker and John Norwell who owned a few hundred shares of stock apiece. The total votes the opposition could muster were one hundred and thirty thousand shares. Alfred and Jim Latham followed the proceedings disgustedly.
Once elected, Agatha made a ceremony of moving to the head of the table. She sat down and surveyed them all with an appraising glance. "I realize that if you could voice your opinion, gentlemen, some of you would demand to know what an eighty-year-old woman expects to do as Chairman of the Board of this company. I'm going to answer for you. I'm going to do just one thing! I'm going to get a President who will pull this company off its fat, complacent behind. If that can't be done . . . then while there is some value left in the inventory and equipment, and some of the real-estate holdings that my father Lincoln Latham was astute enough to purchase in this city . . . the majority stockholders will proceed to rapid liquidation of the company. Since we are now a cozy little group with most of the stock r
epresented, we can dispense with protocol and move fast." Agatha looked at Pat. "I don't like you, Pat, but I think you could run this company. Yale offered you the presidency the other day. Do you want it?"
"Not under any circumstances. You not only have a perfectly good President in Jim Latham. You owe it to him to give him a chance." Jim smiled at Pat and thanked him for his confidence. Agatha ignored him. "John Norwell . . . do you want the presidency?"
"Agatha, don't think that I'm afraid of you," John Norwell said slowly. "And don't think that I'm afraid of the job. I'm not. What I wouldn't care to look forward to is being tossed around. You and the laddie are not interested in this company, you're just manipulators." Norwell pointed at Yale with the end of his cigar. "He'd sell out tomorrow to clip the short-sellers. I keep my ear to the ground. I know that if sufficient stock becomes available, some other interests at this table are going to scramble to get it . . . I don't feel like being President one day and office boy the next. . . ."
"Very sound judgment, John," Alfred Latham applauded.
Yale tried to point out to Norwell that he had already affirmed that he was not going to lose control of Latham. Norwell shook his head. "You are bound to get to the point where you'll require Agatha's stock. You and Agatha may have a falling out." Norwell was about to say that, before he would give any decision, he would have to think it over, when the doors of the office were violently opened, and a young woman rushed in.
"I'm awfully sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Latham," she said, her face flushed, "but the reporters are going wild outside. It seems that a Mr. Paul Downing has just committed suicide!"
Pat looked at Yale dumbfounded. As several reporters dashed into the room, Pat stood up. There was a terrible fury on his face. "There you are, gentlemen. That's the kind of bestial animal I have spawned! Look at him. Get him well in mind. He is the one who killed Paul Downing! He's a ruthless, depraved killer!"
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 58